<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Earth Suns And Gotham Nights by CBlue</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23506399">Earth Suns And Gotham Nights</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBlue/pseuds/CBlue'>CBlue</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Under 1k Drabbles [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>DCU (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Breaking Up &amp; Making Up, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Drabble, Established Relationship, I guess???, Implied Temporary Character Death, M/M, because I had to use The Death of Superman, getting together?, what is this????</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:42:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>946</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23506399</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBlue/pseuds/CBlue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark loves mornings; Bruce loves nights. Somewhere in between, the two meet.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Under 1k Drabbles [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691374</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Earth Suns And Gotham Nights</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is drabbled nonsense because Superbat has been plaguing my Tumblr feed. If you wanna come hang, check out @corancoranthemagicalman.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mornings were undoubtedly Clark’s favorite time of the day. Waking up among soft, warm sheets. Stretching the creeks out of his back with a slow raise of his hands. The lingering sensations of a comfortable night before etched into his body as he slowly made his way to the kitchen with his beloved coffee maker.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Or the mornings with silken sheets, a warm bed despite a cool room. Stretching but being caught around his waist before he could retreat to the kitchen. A kind face with a kinder smile already having two morning cups prepared by the time Clark had made it downstairs in the afternoon.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Yes, mornings were undoubtedly Clark’s favorite time of the day. Comfort and home permeating in the space around him. Familiarity bleeding into his very core as the Earth-sun seeped into his bones.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nights were undoubtedly Bruce’s favorite time of the day. Night was probably contradictory to the phrase </span>
  <em>
    <span>time of day</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but regardless night was Bruce’s favorite time of the day. Lavishing tongues trailing along with thick columns of a neck. Strong, bruising fingers pressing into skin and marking bodies with a biting intensity. A moan so breathless that it’s barely there and the only evidence it ever was there is the mess on sweat-slick skin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Or the nights where there is none of that. No heat and slick and musk. There is only softness. A tender press of soft skin until arms plummeted him into the dark and the shadows. Bruce went with it, lets the warmth of this darkness consume him unlike how a city’s cold darkness has swallowed him whole.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Yes, the nights were undoubtedly Bruce’s favorite time of the day. Touch and sensations reeking in the space surrounding him. Something pressing and anchoring him, a solid form in the unfathomable darkness that kept him with some semblance of humanity.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Despite Clark’s favorite time of day being the morning, Clark had a favorite night.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The night wasn’t a first or a second. It wasn’t a bright star or a dark shadow. It was usual. It was familiar. Taking a gasping breath before looking into piercing eyes reflected in the moonlight that filtered through the window.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was passion, burning Clark up like the Earth-sun. Passion strengthening him, hands drawing and searing him as he gives what this heavenly body asks for. He feels it sharpen his grip and pain has always been part of the pleasure in this. Purpling skin a confession Clark is too afraid to voice.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Yes, the night was terrifying. The night was actions without their consequences. It wasn’t Clark’s favorite time of day, but there was something here. Something that lay in the darkness that was terribly worth it. Comfort in cotton or silk, home in quaint or extravagant, as long as it was this body in the circumference of his arms. Familiarity with every unwhispered want and haunting ache of his body.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Despite Bruce’s favorite time of the day being contrarily the night, Bruce had a favorite morning.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The morning wasn’t a first or a second. It wasn’t a bird singing or a quiet roll of morning clouds. It was the usual. It was familiar. Inhaling sharply the scent of last night’s activities - or sometimes lack thereof. It’s the latter on this favorite morning. Where there is no fresh bruising on his waist but still a warm arm enclosed around him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was tenderness, subdued but there like a flickering street light. Tenderness enrapturing him, arm drawing him and enveloping him into the sun-soaked body behind him. He feels it smoldering his waist, his neck where a soft breath exhales and inhales in equal measure. Tanned skin a stark contrast against his pale skin that he wants to whisper every confession that he is too afraid to voice.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Yes, the morning was terrifying. The morning was repercussions. It wasn’t Bruce’s favorite time of day, but there was something here. Something that lay in the early light that was terribly worth it. A touch that was too gentle to be anything but what Bruce selfishly wanted. Sensations that he hadn’t the name for. An anchor to the morning and the warmth and the vulnerability that went with it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There was one morning, despite it being his favorite time of day, that Clark hated.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was fighting and shouting. Voices raw and angry. It was coffee that was never made and slamming doors.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clark remembered that morning the most.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He remembered it because he hated the night that followed even worse. Going to bed alone, not knowing if there would ever be a body to sleep next to again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There was one night, despite it being his favorite time of day, that Bruce hated.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was raining and thundering. A box being lowered into the ground. Half of the bed that was never warmed and a ghostly sensation of fingertips along his hip.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce remembered that night the most.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He remembered it because he hated the morning that followed even worse. Waking up alone, realizing that the night before had not been some horrid nightmare.</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>If there was one thing that both Clark and Bruce could agree on, it was that they had a favorite afternoon. They shared it, shared it with a few small witnesses and the night and morning after the world could have it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The next afternoon was a barely bearable one. With interviews and newsletters and a very busy Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Or a very busy Clark Kent-Wayne and Bruce Kent-Wayne.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The night before the afternoon, Bruce made an argument for Wayne-Kent.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The morning before the afternoon, Clark won with Kent-Wayne.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Diana thought it was stupid either way.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>